


Jerk England Radio

by KellerProcess



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (we see you Prussia; we see you), England a big sister, Gen, Sealand's room is a mess, extreme stamp collecting, farting England's football song is challenging, shameless fredrich the great fangirling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's quiet evening at home with her stamps gets interrupted by her two least-favorite people: France and Sealand, who seem to have put together an internet radio show about her shortcomings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jerk England Radio

Now that her elections had ended and her new Prime Minister was settling in, England was finally able to relax and spend some time in a far more agreeable pursuit than politics.

“Oh no you don’t, you grimy little shite.” England scowled and upped her bid for the Penny Black stamp to 500 USD. “Praise God for the eternal strength of the British pound. Let the bloody European 'Oh yes, let’s all go on the same currency, Greece’s lazy arse will never bung that all up for us!' Union stuff that up its pipe!”

Whoever B00bz0fSteel1740 was, he, she, or it was apparently unable or unwilling to continue their bidding war. When she had watched the auction’s last three minutes roll away to make sure no snipers got any funny ideas, England stirred her tea triumphantly before clicking her bookmark for TalkyPod.com. The OxBridge Stamp Society’s weekly talkcast had just begun; if she hurried she could be their first caller, and by the end of the hour the entire world would know about the smashing (and very coveted!) new addition to her more than impressive collection, which was displayed prominently all over her study.

Who said that losing your imperial status meant losing your panache, she thought as she plugged her headset into her computer tower.

The only thing that England hated about TalkyPod.com was the abominable layout. Rather than sensibly listing the shows by subject, the site displayed links to the thirty most popular on its main page—which, of course, had yet to include the Oxbridge Stamp Society’s Weekly “Lick and Stick” in that program’s three years. Rather, one had to click a little button in the sidebar to find an alphabetized list. The inconvenience of it always made England grind her teeth, but as it was the only such site she had found that wasn’t filled with sub-literate teenagers, she tolerated its idiosyncrasies.

Indeed, that would have been England’s sole aggravation that evening had she not happened to glance at the main page just then—and more specifically at the title of the show currently beating out the other twenty-nine.

At the very least, she would not have spilled her tea all over the new flat of limited edition Humane Society bunny stamps America had given her for Easter.

““Dr. France’s Heure d’Amor and The Jerk England is a Jerk Show?”” She then noticed the number in red beside it and felt her stomach turn over. “Ten thousand bloody listeners?!? Why that—that wine-faced, syphilitic tart and that little, foul-mouthed, bratty—”

As she frantically pounded the cursor against the link, England felt something warm and sticky drip onto her lap. Looking down, she noticed her upturned beaker and the soppy page of what had once been a cavalcade of frolicking baby rabbits.

“DAMN!”

***

Sealand leaned back in her beanbag chair and whipped the drool from her chin. “So that’s what England’s football song would sound like if you farted all the words.”

From the beanbag at her side, France chuckled and refilled her wineglass. “Definitely an improvement upon the vuvuzela rendition.” She took a delicate sip and winked at the webcam.

Sealand rolled her eyes and covered the microphone on her headset. “That’s been broken for like three weeks; damn it, I keep saying. Anyway, thanks for your question, LordOfTheBling. Hey, France, you want to go to your emails for a bit, or do you want to share some more embarrassing stories about Jerk England?”

France tapped one impeccably manicured red nail against her plump lips, considering. “Hmm. As fun as that is, my inbox is flooded, as always, with hearts far lonelier and desperate than dear Angleterre’s.”

“Like that ‘Sleepless in Siberia’ person that doesn’t have any friends and can’t get laid and doesn’t, like, have a life except for our show?” Sealand pressed a button on her computer and the sound of a flushing toilet played.

France coughed as if she wanted to change the subject. “No, we have nothing from her—her or him, I mean. But during the last five minutes, we do have a rather interesting email from, ah, Prussia@IchLeibeFriedrichDerGroße.biz.”

“Huh. Usually when Nations write in they’re not obvious.”

“Ma petite.” France ruffled the micronation’s hair. “When it comes to Prussia, everything is obvious.” France clicked through to the email’s text and daintily cleared her throat.

“Hey, losers:

"Just about ten minute ago I lost a super awesome Penny Black postal stamp on eBay to someone with the user name LadyElizabethKirkland—”

Sealand sniggered into her palm. “Get away! England collects stamps? What a plonker!”

“Yeah, guess who?” France continued. “And normally I wouldn’t care because I only ever bid on Old Fritz memorabilia, or NASCAR shit, or Japan’s weird pornos. But this time I had a reason. Hungary’s been looking for a Penny Black stamp for a while now. I just wanted to buy it so he wouldn’t get it, and then I could wave it around in his stupid face. It wasn’t a gift or anything mushy like that. But England just had to keep cockblocking me like the bitch she is. I’m trying to pack up a bunch of T-shirt orders for the Old Fritz Fan Club today, so my awesome creativity is kind of limited. So how would you two get revenge against her, Prussia-style?”

France took another sip of wine. “A very good question, Prussia. I recommend an assault on the very thing England used to slight you in your quest for Hungary’s, ah, continued irritation: her stamp book. Remember, my dear, that you alone are in the possession of the world’s only Frederick the Great commemorative stamps. Send her a message to that effect, and ask for five hundred thousand pounds for one of them. She will be unable to resist. Now, as for your other problem, the one you have so painfully left unspoken: My dear, I have been watching you deny that you are flirting with poor Hungary ever since the three of us were children. You would be much happier if you simply confessed your feelings, no matter what his response. And really, given how viciously he denies any interest in you, I think that your chances of a happy resolution are much better than you think.”

Sealand had been tugging on her sleeve for quite sometime. “Yes, my dear? Do we have another caller?”

The micronation nodded and giggled, looking almost giddy. "Stone me, it’s the woman herself!” She tapped the screen before her, where the name LadyKirkland had just appeared on the list of listeners.

France grinned. “Ahh, it seems that we have a very special guest, indeed.”

“You’ve reached France and Sealand Jerk England show,” Sealand chirped as she clicked on England’s name. “Thanks for calling in, jerk.”

“YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU ABSOLUTE, FOUL LITTLE SHIT!”

“Ohohohoho! England, such language in front of the child.”

“Oh, sod off, France. And a fat lot of good you’ve done for her, encouraging this—this blatant slander!”

“It’s not slander,” Sealand insisted. “Everything we’ve said is true—well, mostly true, anyway. I don’t know if that’s really how it’d sound if they farted your football cheer. But everything else is true! Even that time you turned yourself into a rabbit for twenty years.”

“YOU TOLD THEM ABOUT THAT?!”

“Angleterre, Angleterre,” France purred. “You were a very young Nation at the time; magical accidents were bound to happen when you tried to curse a much older, more experienced Nation such as myself. Ohohohohoho!” And broken though the webcam was, France still fluffed her blond curls and batted her eyelashes as she preened into it.

“Oh, that just tears it,” England snarled. “Sealand, you are to log off immediately, or—”

“Or you’ll do what, jerk?”

“Or I’ll make you very, very sorry that Sweden, blistering fool that she is, gave you that ruddy computer for your birthday.” Something in England’s tone, which was surprisingly soft and measured, punctured France’s grin.

Oblivious to this change in her friend’s demeanor, Sealand snorted. “And how’ll you do that, you tosspot? You can’t just sail over here on one of your boats, can you? I’m in international waters, and you’re not my boss!”

“Oh, I won’t be sailing,” England was practically cooing now. “Have you forgotten already, my dear little girl? I’m a sorceress. I can fly anywhere I like faster than that bloody Frog sitting next to you can hop into the ocean and paddle away.”

Sealand laughed. “Yeah, right. As if France would go anywhere. We’re mates, huh, France?”

But the beanbag next to her was vacant.

“France?”

A faint splashing noise came from beyond the window.

“Oi!” Sealand was there in seconds, just in time to see the older Nation breaststroking away as if all the monsters of the deep were in pursuit.

“I just remembered I’m late for a meeting with my boss. I’m sorry, ma petite! But it cannot be helped!” France called over her shoulder.

“What the—are you actually afraid of this barmy magic business?”

“It cannot be helped!”

“Come back! You-you coward!”

But there was no use for it; France was already under the platform, her arms and legs flailing faster than propellers in the wavelets. Soon she had vanished from sight.

England was laughing when Sealand returned to the headset.

Sealand swallowed. “Yeah, go ahead and laugh, jerk. I’m not afraid of you.”

England’s chuckle dropped to a growl. “Well, perhaps you should be.”

“England, don’t you dare—”

But LadyKirkland had signed off.

***

When it came to traveling, England preferred to take the Tube or the bus like any other civilized person; flying took a great deal of concentration and always left her feeling tired and cranky. Nevertheless, it was the fastest way to reach the crumbling platform Sealand insisted upon calling her country. Exactly fifteen minutes after ending her call to her little sister’s obnoxious internet radio show, England disembarked from her cricket bat (brooms had lost her favor shortly after the sport’s creation) and strode across the helicopter pad and down into the platform’s living areas. “I am here on Nation business,” she told the astonished Sealander who met her. “If you don’t fancy spending the rest of your days as a newt, kindly shut your mouth and do not interfere.”

Sealand was nowhere on the platform, and the casino beneath the pad had been deserted, except for a few Russian gamblers. England tried the micronation’s kitchenette and peered into her boss’ living quarters to no avail. England suspected that the child was hiding in her room—unless, of course, she had decided to join the wine-faced whore in the water. Still, the older Nation preferred to take her time; the thought of the little shit cowering in her closet or underneath her bed was too pleasant to spoil by rushing things.

Sealand’s door was covered with a variety of obnoxious posters advertising Japan’s ridiculous cartoons and video games, and even more obnoxious hand-drawn pictures of fish, skulls, and dinosaurs. “Sealand’s Room: Keep Out! Espeshily England!” one advertised. The misspelling aggravated her, but England pushed the door open nonetheless, deciding she would wait until later to lecture her little sister about the importance of looking up the spelling of difficult words instead of just guessing.

“Sealand,” she called out as she entered the room. “Are you in here, my dear?”

As ever, the place was an utter pigsty. Coloring books, video game boxes, and dirty plates littered the floor, which was already cluttered with toys—race cars, figures from role-playing games, and something that Japan called “Transformers,” or some such bloody nonsense that America was forever gushing about as well. With mounting irritation, England also noticed the doll she had given Sealand as a Christmas gift last year. Her beautiful golden braids had been hacked off with scissors.

 _Really. Why can’t she play nicely with her toys like a proper girl should?_ England scowled as she straightened the pillows on Sealand’s bed. It didn’t appear to have been made in months. She couldn’t understand it; Latvia was her best friend. Surely the Baltic girl knew how to tidy up better than any other Nation.

A small sound in the room’s armoire drew her attention.

“Paige Kirkland, stop bollixing about and get your arse out here so I can paddle it.”

The heavily postered doors remained shut.

“You know I’m going to cane you all the harder if you keep hiding.”

Silence. England felt her eyebrows knit.

“Oh, to hell with this nonsense.” She yanked the armoire’s doors open only to find piles of DVDs and a gerbil blinking its black eyes at her from the bottom of the wheel in its aquarium-style cage.

England turned just in time to see Sealand dart from behind the door and out into the hallway.

Cursing, the older Nation ran after her. While Sealand had the advantage of youthful speed and flexibility, England still had longer legs. Before the micronation could reach the staircase, England had caught her around the waist.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Sealand thrashed mightily, but England also had the advantage of being taller and stronger.

“No,” she told the girl as she threw her over her shoulder. “Not until we’ve had a little chat, you and I.”

“Bitch! Bloody cunt!”

“If you’re trying to upset me, you can’t. I’m already right furious at you,” England carried her kicking and screaming prisoner back to her bedroom. Sealand proceeded to hurl abuse until England dropped her on her beanbag chair and slapped her across the face. That had always calmed down America—and less frequently Canada—when she threw a tantrum, and for a moment, England thought her trick had worked on her newest charge as well.

Sealand touched her reddened cheek and looked down at her fingers. “You hit me,” she said incredulously. England watched impassively as her expression screwed up, as if she had just tasted something sour. “You hit me!”

England flexed her hand. “Yes, I did. And if you don’t tell me why you just aired my business for the whole world to hear, I’ll bloody well do it again.”

Sealand’s sour face reddened like an apple, and England winced as she let out a long, loud wail. “You! Hit! Meeeeee!”

“Oh do stop carrying on. It was just a tap. I hit America harder when she provoked me.”

“It’s going to bruise!”

Something twisted uncomfortably in England’s stomach. Apparently, what was good for the goose was not always good for the gander. “Paige…. ” She was not going to let the impertinent girl manipulate her, she decided. No, she would not. But when Sealand’s tears continued, she knelt down in front of her and offered her handkerchief.

“Here, dry off and I’ll fetch you tea from the canteen. But no running off again, understand? Or I really will cane you.”

“You’re a git.” Sealand fiercely blew her nose upon her sleeve.

England sighed. “If you must blow your nose, use a proper handkerchief. And just how long has it been since you washed that shirt?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because it’s filthy, just like the rest of this room. When you’ve had your tea and apologized for your behavior, we are going to dust and scrub and hoover until it’s clean again.”

Sealand hiccupped. “I hate chores.”

“Then you should have thought of that before forcing me to come over and discipline you. Now don’t make me run after you again.”

England walked across the hall to the kitchenette and filled an iron kettle with water. When it had boiled on the hotplate, she filled two cracked beakers and cast about for some loose-leaf tea. Finding only bags of cheap Earl Gray, she shook her head, but and dropped one into each mug nonetheless, followed by two sugar cubes and some powdered milk.

“Bloody barbarians, the lot of them,” she muttered. No proper tea service, no scones, and only some dried digestive biscuits for sweets; really, it was no wonder the child was half feral.

Sealand had stopped crying by the time she returned with the pitiful service. “Drink it all,” she said as she thrust the mug into her hands. “It’s going to be foul, of course, but it can’t be helped. I suppose I’m going to have to teach you about tea as well when I’m through lecturing you.”

Sealand took a sullen sip, her gaze not leaving England’s.

The tea was indeed substandard despite her best efforts, but England forced herself to choke it down. Feeling somewhat calmer after refreshments, she pulled up the other beanbag.

“Now talk,” she said. “Why did you broadcast my affairs to half the bloody planet?”

Sealand just stared at her and munched her biscuit.

“Got bored with your video games and funny books, did you? Or was it France put you up to it?” When Sealand shook her head, England sighed and folded her arms across her narrow bosom. “Right, then. My elections are over and my new boss has given me the week off. I can sit here as long as it takes.”

“Really? You don’t even have to go back for Parliament, or whatever?”

“The only thing I’m missing right now is the Oxbridge Stamp Society’s 'Stick and Lick.' And while you’ve denied me the pleasure of telling them about my new Penny Black, I can download the podcast later.” She stared at Sealand impassively then, refusing to answer any more of her half-formed and increasingly frustrated questions.

At last, the micronation heaved a great, put-upon sigh and shrugged. “I dunno. I just wanted to make you mad.”

“Oh, you do plenty of things to aggravate me, make no mistake about that. But why do something as childish as airing my dirty laundry on the internet?”

“Because you’re a jerk, and the whole world should know what a bad big sister you are.”

England chuckled, despite her irritation. “My dear, the entire world already knows that I am 'a jerk,' as you’ve so eloquently put it. As far as I’m concerned, they can either like the fact or lump it. And then she blinked. “Hold up. A bad big sister?”

Sealand shrugged again.

England laughed nervously. “What in blazes—I’m—you’re an impertinent little brat with nothing better to do than spend your time with a Nation who thinks that America’s _Girls Gone Wild_ is the height of culture. And anyway, she’s far too old to be your friend, no matter what she’s said about being a good big sister.”

“Well, at least she pays attention to me when I’m not being bad!”

“But I pay plenty of attention to you! I can’t help but do so when you’re forever misbehaving.” England frowned. “Oh. Wait.”

Sealand smiled, but it was one of sadness, not of triumph. “Yeah.”

The two sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Upstairs, a chorus of loud cheering indicated that someone had just won a good hand at blackjack.

“Paige—”

“Liz—”

England sighed. “No, I’m your elder and I will speak first. If you want to be my little sister, then you need to act it.” Sealand opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when England glared at her. “Let me finish, girl. This means no pranks, no badmouthing, no crashing World Meetings to bill yourself as a Nation, and absolutely no doing anything deliberately to aggravate or insult me.”

“But France and I—”

“Especially not that ruddy excuse for a show! If you and that doxy absolutely must be chums and absolutely must have your fun on the internet, then put together something nice.”

“Something. Nice.”

“Perhaps a talk show about, erm….” England glanced around the room. “Well, you like Japan’s video games well enough.”

“Get out! Half the bloody internet is gits blathering about Japan’s stuff, and the other half is porn!”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is! America’s got a song all about it. And she sings it with puppets!”

England made a note to thoroughly and utterly strangle her former colony upon their next meeting. And France too, just because. “America also thinks that reality television was humanity’s greatest invention and that Wales is inhabited entirely by two-ton sea creatures. Anyway, she’s wrong. There are plenty of good, wholesome things on the internet to interest girls your age.”

Sealand frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “Prove it.”

“Well I-I haven’t all day to while away upon the damned thing. I’m a Nation, and I’ve got proper Nation things to do. But there are knitting tutorials, and puzzle games, and—” the idea struck like lightening. “And stamp collecting.”

“Bo-ring!”

“And how would you know, madam? You’ve never looked at a stamp in your life, I reckon.”

“Of course I do! Old ladies like you that haven’t learned about email yet stick 'em on letters that they send through the post or they stick 'em on Christmas cards and the like. So--boring.”

“And yet, your prince designed some just for you.”

Sealand laughed. “Oh, come off it, England! My boss only made cool things for me like coins and passports and cool stuff that people actually care about.”

“So, you don’t think that a Nation’s postage is one of the things that makes her a Nation?”

England could almost see the girl’s ears pricking up.

“Oh, yes. You can tell a lot about a Nation by looking at her stamps, you know,” England continued as she examined her fingernails casually. “Look at America. When she’s not printing endless reiterations of her blasted flag or bald eagles, she’s making stamps of her famous singers, or cute, fluffy animals because those make her postmasters money. And Russia. D’you know, when she was an empire, her stamps showed her tsars’ coats of arms? Some stamps show presidents or monarchs, or celebrate holidays. And your stamps…”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“Oh, no.” England waved her hands dismissively. “If you couldn’t be bothered to ask your so-called prince regent about them, they can’t be very interesting, can they?”

“Liz…”

“After all, only boring old ladies muck about with them.”

“I’m interested, all right?” Sealand snapped. “And you’ve seen the bloody things, haven’t you? So tell me what they look like, already! …Please?” she added, in a somewhat softer tone.

“Very well, since you said please. Your stamps, my dear—or such as they are, anyway; not being an actual Nation they can’t properly be sold as anything but curios—”

“Get to the point…uh. Please?”

England smiled. “They’re all of explorers, my dear. Vasco da Gama. Marco Polo. Men like that.”

“Like pirates?!”

“Good Lord, no! Whatever are these barbarians teaching you? Just explorers. Humans who knew about the sea, which is, much to my misfortune and continual amazement, where you continue to exist as the bane of my existence.”

“Ha, ha.”

“But for what it is worth, they also say that you are daring and adventurous—and a right pain when you don’t get something you want. Oh make no mistake, Paige, quite a few of them made damned nuisances of themselves when our bosses wouldn’t give them patronage.”

Sealand shrugged, but England could tell that she was quite impressed, nonetheless. “So…these stamps. Does my boss have any for me, then?”

“Well, I couldn’t say. They haven’t been printed since the 1970s, Of course…I do have the entire set back at my house. Not that I want to show them to nasty little girls who mock me on the internet…”

Sealand sighed as if had just been asked to shoulder an impossible burden. “All right, all right. I’m sorry. But no more ignoring me, okay?”

“Seeing as you give me absolutely no peace when I do, I don’t see as I have any choice in the matter,” England grumbled. “Anyway, I’ve got hundreds of stamps that need to be properly cataloged and stored, and not half the time I need in which to do all that.”

“Hn.” Sealand sucked on her fingertips, looking thoughtful.

England sighed as well. “ If you absolutely must spend time with me, that is my offer.”

“Dunno. Do you have better tea?”

This earned the girl a thin-lipped smile. “Naturally. What kind of Nation do you think I am?” She held out her arm to Sealand, who took it.

“So, how did you fly out here, anyway?” she remarked as the two ascended to the platform. “Did you use a broom, or what? And how are we both gonna get back to your house?”

“Do you have a cricket bat in all this mess of yours?” When Sealand nodded, England swatted her on the back. “Well, go get it, then, so I can enchant it. We haven’t all day, you know.”

After all, she mused, as the girl scampered back into her room to dig through the mess, there were plenty of eBay auctions to follow tonight, and Prussia couldn’t be watching all of them. England smiled mischievously. And, really, it would be fun to school Sealand in the fine art of sniping.


End file.
